Waiting for Courage: The Other Side
by casapazzo
Summary: Boromir falls. Frodo descends. It's not the same thing at all. Sam-Frodo, primarily book'verse, a little movie-canon worked in.


Waiting for Courage (The Other Side)  
Summary: Boromir falls. Frodo descends. It's not the same thing at all.  
Rating: PG  
Pairings: Frodo/Sam

Disclaimer: This story is a remix of Cimorene's "Waiting for Courage," and as such contains some of her original dialogue and description. I shamelessly cribbed most of the rest of the dialogue from either the book or the movie, which belong to JRR Tolkien and Peter Jackson/Wingnut/New Line. 

* * *

Crossing the shattered landscape, Frodo can feel Sam's gaze, heavy with worry, following him as he stumbles over burnt ground and black ash. But the awareness passes in a flash like all other sensations now, except for the dead weight around his neck that is at once branding-iron hot and icy cold, and the Ring's maddening steady murmur, like a nightmare voice from another room. For a brief moment he wonders if that fell voice was the last thing Boromir heard before he lunged at him above Amon Hen. And he wonders how much longer before he succumbs, too.  
-- -- -- --  
  
The path wound through the Naith of Lórien; sunlight fell in dappled green-gold to mesmerize a traveler, though only Haldir, their guide, could see it. The subdued Fellowship, eyes shrouded and other senses intent on keeping their feet, felt the shifting, playing patterns of light and shade across their skin. Frodo and Sam walked close together, stepping lightly in unconscious tandem, Sam taking his master's arm whenever Haldir warned of a twist or dip in the path. The scents of the forest rose around them, from the old, almost dusty, thick-piled fallen leaves to the warm, sharper tang of the golden mallorn trees; that and the slow, preternatural air of the forest itself made the surroundings feel even more alive, almost visible, in spite of the blindfolds.   
  
The unseen beauty of the forest was a great frustration to Sam, who stretched his fingertips out to brush against leaf and bark as they passed, or said such things as "You smell that Mr. Frodo? It reminds me of those nasturtiums I put in your window-boxes last year, but sweeter like."   
  
Frodo could hear behind them Merry and Pippin – their steps were light enough so as to go unnoticed, but Pippin's stomach had started to growl. Unusually, he didn't complain of being hungry, but Frodo heard the rustle of a pack shortly thereafter, and suspected Merry hoped to be able to find by touch something for his younger cousin.   
  
Further back, and faintly, was a scent of leather and metal and a steady heavy rasping sound; Boromir's shield shifting against his pack. The man had been...not afraid, but deeply reluctant to cross into Lórien's borders, mistrustful of whatever enchantments lay upon the wood. _"It is perilous indeed, fair and perilous; but only evil need fear it, or those who bring some evil with them,"_ Aragorn had said, and seemingly set him a little more at ease; or at least, like a good soldier, Boromir had put his fears aside for the sake of necessity. Frodo occasionally caught snatches of him humming some steady cadence under his breath, an old marching song meant to shore up flagging spirits and tired feet.  
  
For his part, Frodo had not found Aragorn's words of much comfort, for what greater evil could they possibly bring with them than what he carried? The Ring was a cold weight under his shirt, and he often found himself reaching absent-mindedly for it, patting to reassure himself it was still there in a manner reminiscent of Bilbo's constant pocket-fiddling. The strength of its pull had only increased the longer he carried it – and all the more so every time he slipped it over his finger. Nightmares of the wraith-world plagued his sleep, and he shivered when he remembered them waking, though he stood in full sunlight.   
  
Gandalf had suggested that the Ring's very proximity was a danger, even to the other members of the Fellowship, not just to him. And now one of them – now Gandalf had fallen and their path was in question. Frodo alone was now responsible for keeping this great burden; keeping it safe from himself, and the others safe from it.   
  
Sam, who had fallen silent to better hear a bit of birdsong, seemed to sense his master's darkening mood, and spoke up again. "I sure wish I could see the forest, Mr. Frodo. I don't rightly know how I know it, but it _feels_ awfully beautiful." He stepped closer as he spoke, until their sleeves brushed as they walked. Frodo's hand came down from his mouth – he'd been biting at his nails again - and he turned his face toward Sam, though it made no difference to his sight. "The smell of these here trees and grass and flowers – well, its like the woods of the Shire, and yet not quite. And I don't know that it's the smell of the forest, so much as the smell of forest and some kind of queer Elvish magic mixed together like, if you follow me." Frodo heard the soft hiss of Sam drawing a deep breath, and he, too, breathed in the smells of green and growing earth, sun-warmed air, and the comforting, familiar scent of Sam.   
  
- -   
  
They walked until dark and camped still blind in the darkness, then went on again in the morning. At midday, an elven host marching north to the Moria border intercepted them, bearing the Lord and Lady's greetings. At their word, the Fellowship's eyes were unbound, and they were bade to rest there on the hillside of Cerin Amroth. And there on the smooth green hill, Frodo espied Aragorn, standing surrounded by the pale yellow _elanor_, whispering to the memory of his love, and wondered.   
  
Coming back down the hill to the glade, Frodo found the others taking their ease: Merry and Pippin dozed together, piled beneath their cloaks; Boromir, a little apart from the others, leaned against the bole of a gnarled tree, sipping from his water-skin; Gimli and Legolas sat together talking, one in the shade, the other in the sun, long legs stretched out before him. Sam had piled his things and Frodo's in a soft hollow beneath a stand of birches, and stood waiting for him; when Frodo approached and sat, grateful for the rest, then Sam lay down, pillowing his head on his arms.   
  
"Going to sleep, Sam?" Frodo asked. He rubbed at the chain around his neck. Sam's eyes were already heavy-lidded, drooping shut as he watched.   
  
"Just for a bit, Mr. Frodo. Haldir says we'll go on to the city, Caras Galadon, at dusk."   
  
Frodo's fingers continued rubbing the chain, pulling at it, sliding down…he yanked his hand away, trying to ignore the way his skin tightened across his body, prickling uncomfortably. His fingers rose to his mouth, teeth plucking at already torn skin and nail.   
  
"Don't," Sam murmured, and reaching up, fumbled Frodo's hand down and laying it in the cool grass beneath his own. Frodo drew his legs up, wrapped his other arm tightly around them, and laid his head on his knees. Sam had already closed his eyes again, eyelashes dark against his skin. At that moment, Frodo wanted nothing more than to stretch out next to Sam and lay his hand along the sun-browned skin, but he was conscious of the Ring's pressure on his chest, a dull, creeping itch, and so he hardly dared to move. Instead, he sat watching Sam breathe, counting the seconds between breaths and focusing of the warmth of Sam's hand, until at long last the sun set, and Haldir called them to leave.   
  
- -  
  
Frodo slept easier in Lothlórien, though he still frequently woke with his hand cupped around the Ring. Often in the moments before he dropped off, he saw again the Lady Galadriel's piercing gaze, felt the weight of her regard. Like the others, he'd felt his doubts and fears laid open to her at their meeting; and he'd sensed a benevolence from the Lady that was not so simple as sympathy or approval. It is a burden you accepted willingly, she had said to him clearly, and you bear it well. He still, however, longed to hear some word, some advice to aid him, but none was forthcoming. Decisions regarding the fate of the Ring – and therefore the world – were going to be his alone to make.  
  
Like Frodo, Aragorn and Boromir retained more of their troubles and worries in spite of the Elven kingdom's slow, peaceful air – Boromir most visibly. The man had resented Galadriel probing their hearts with her strange Elvish magic, and had exchanged hard words with Aragorn over it. He also chafed at their delay in traveling on, feeling keenly his long absence from Minas Tirith, his men and the city defenses, and his brother.   
  
But when Pippin asked for stories of Gondor, Boromir gladly told some old tales – of Cirion and Eorl, of the southern queen Beruthiel and her cats – and one night, he told also of the retaking of Osgiliath, just before he'd left in search of Rivendell. A troubled expression came over his face as he finished.   
  
"Seven months I've been gone," he said softly, and would tell no more tales that night.   
  
He seemed restless at all hours of the day, and Frodo frequently woke at night to find Boromir's bedroll empty, and a dark figure sitting a little ways apart from the pavilion, as if keeping watch. On one such occasion, he saw Aragorn go out to him, and heard the low murmur of their voices.   
  
"Take some rest. These borders are well protected." Aragorn seated himself next to the other man.   
  
"I will find no rest here. I hear the Lady's voice inside my head. She speaks of my father and the fall of Gondor. She says to me that even now there is hope left, but I cannot see it. It is long since we had any hope." He sighed with great weariness. "My father is a noble man, but his rule is failing. And now our...our people lose faith. He looks to me to make things right and I would do it. I would see the glory of Gondor restored."  
  
Aragorn, for his part, was glad for every day that they lingered in the fair woods, as it put off the hard decision that was before him. When Gandalf had been with them to lead the Ring-bearer into Mordor, Aragorn had intended to turn south toward Minas Tirith with Boromir, and with his sword help to deliver Gondor. Though he was loath to send Boromir back to Gondor alone and empty-handed, he now feared that responsibility for escorting the Ring lay with him, and his dilemma tormented him.   
  
Slowly, the days of the Fellowship in Lothlórien passed on; they rested, grieved, and were restored both in strength and spirit under the timeless trees. Merry and Pippin wandered at their leisure, or sought out the singers and storytellers who would translate into Westron for them. Legolas went among his kinsmen in the city at length, frequently staying with them instead of returning to the Fellowship's pavilion; often he took Gimli with him, which caused much comment.   
  
Sam spent a great deal of his time in the gardens, of course, walking among the hedges and dug beds. On one occasion, he even came across an older elf with weeding and trimming tools; though neither spoke the other's tongue, a gardener's rapport was established, and to his great delight, Sam spent the day digging and raking and trimming in the Lady Galadriel's magnificent gardens. Frodo suspected Sam would have spent all his time there if he had not been taking special pains to look after Frodo; the two of them spent most of their days together, often with Merry and Pippin, but just as frequently alone.   
  
In the mornings, they went exploring, following narrow trickles of streams or walking around the great green wall of the city. Frodo felt twinges of guilt sometimes for dragging Sam about, clambering over rocks and cold streams. He worried that he took advantage of Sam's giving nature, selfishly enjoying his presence when Sam could be doing something more to his liking.   
  
He tried one day to express this. "Wouldn't you rather be doing something else, Sam? You didn't have to come with me today if you didn't want to."   
  
Sam looked surprised and simply said, "I know." And then his eyes fell upon something hidden beneath a thicket of hazel. "Look at this!" he said, with a delighted cry, and Frodo came and knelt beside him to see many small clumps of delicate blossoms, like the pale _niphredil_, but edged with a faint blush of blue, scattered beneath and around the thicket. "I wonder why they don't grow these in the gardens," Sam remarked. Caught by the joy of his expression and the warm pressure where Sam's knee pressed against his own, Frodo felt he could not deny himself the pleasure of Sam's company.   
  
In the afternoons, Sam would go to the gardens, or find a sun-warmed hollow to nap in. Frodo would read from slim borrowed volumes of archaic Elvish poetry until Sam came back to scold him about the failing light; but then he would begin to read them aloud to Sam, epic stories and songs brought from the mighty kingdoms of old Beleriand before its destruction, and they would sit together thus until the orange-amber light of the sunset drew them to their favorite watching spot.   
  
"This puts me in mind of Bag End," Sam said, "with me in the gardens and yourself studying and reading all the day."   
  
"Indeed, it does Sam," Frodo replied, laughing, for it did feel like home.  
  
- -  
  
_"I wish I had never come here. And I don't want to see no more magic."_   
  
The borrowed boats of Lórien floated swiftly south, carried by the river Anduin, and the memory of Sam, bent and weeping at his feet, haunted Frodo as they drifted. They had looked into Galadriel's Mirror last night in Lothlórien, Frodo hoping for guidance, Sam to see the Shire and those he'd left behind. The Lady had warned them they might see terrible things, cautioned them against using the Mirror as a guide, but Frodo had never seen Sam so wild with anguish. _"I can't stay here, I must go home! They've dug up Bagshot Row, and there's the poor old gaffer going down the Hill with his bits of things on a barrow. I must go home!"_ And Frodo had been helpless to comfort him.  
  
With Lothlórien behind them, he was very conscious that for all the peril they had already faced and suffering they had endured, now their road would truly darken and the dangers only increase. What right had he to take Sam so far from what he knew, from the home where he belonged and was needed? Sam could've been back in the Shire were it not for him; Frodo knew he had been wrong to let Sam come with him after Rivendell.  
  
He felt the weight of the Ring more keenly now: Gollum was driven by the never-ending poison of the Ring; Gandalf had not trusted himself to carry it; and even the sweet grace of Galadriel's power had undergone a terrible transformation when she rejected Frodo's willing offer of the Ring. This he was supposed to resist. A tall enough order, to be sure, but how could he protect the others from its influence? How could he protect Sam?  
  
- -  
  
They traveled on the river for many days, making cold camp on the riverbanks at night, for they dared not light a fire. Already it seemed to Frodo that a dark shadow began to trouble them: south of Lorien, the trees thinned out, then disappeared altogether, and the lands of the east bank were desolate; Sam and Aragorn had spotted Gollum following them at night, paddling on a log; and most distressing of all, Boromir was growing increasingly agitated. Merry reported nervously to Frodo that as they traveled, the man was given to muttering to himself and staring south – or at Frodo – anxiously.   
  
Every day they traveled brought the party closer to the Falls of Rauros, which would be the final decision point – whether the Ring would go to Mordor or to Gondor – and it weighed heavily on them all.   
  
"I shall go to Minas Tirith, alone if need be, for it is my duty," said Boromir one evening; and after that he was silent for a while, sitting with his eyes fixed on Frodo, as if he was trying to read the Halfling's thoughts. At length he spoke again, softly, as if he was debating with himself. "If you wish only to destroy the Ring," he said, "then there is little use in war and weapons; and the Men of Minas Tirith cannot help. But if you wish to destroy the armed might of the Dark Lord, then it is folly to go without force into his domain; and folly to throw away..." He paused suddenly, as if he had become aware that he was speaking his thoughts aloud. "It would be folly to throw lives away, I mean," he ended. "It is a choice between defending a strong place and walking openly into the arms of death. At least, that is how I see it."  
  
Frodo looked at Aragorn, but he seemed sunk in his own thoughts, and made no reply to Boromir's speech. Plainly Boromir had changed his thought in mid-sentence. "It would be folly to throw away:" what? The Ring of Power? So he had spoken in Rivendell, but then had accepted the correction of Elrond. The others of the party were already asleep and Boromir made no other comment, so Frodo curled himself next to Sam on their blankets, and eventually slept.   
  
Perhaps Aragorn had heard, for Frodo woke some time later to the sound of harsh whispers.   
  
"Minas Tirith is the safer road, you know that. From there we can regroup, strike out for Mordor from a place of strength."   
  
"There is no strength in Gondor that can avail us," Aragorn answered angrily.   
  
"You were quick enough to trust the Elves," Boromir shot back. "Have you so little faith in your own people? Yes, there is weakness, there is frailty. But there is courage also, and honor to be found in Men. But you will not see that." Frustration built in Boromir's voice, and Frodo thought he seemed close to begging. Indeed, he must have been, for he quickly became angry. "You are afraid! All your life, you have hidden in the shadows, scared of who you are, of what you are..."  
  
"I would not lead the Ring within a hundred leagues of your city!" Frodo heard Aragorn storm away to the other side of the encampment. He waited a few moments, then opened his eyes cautiously. The moon was only a day or two old, giving little light to see by, but enough for Frodo to see Boromir, standing a few yards away with fists clenched angrily. As he watched, the man's shoulders slumped and he hung his head, as if overtaken by some great sorrow or weariness. Frodo felt a swell of pity for him.  
  
"That's bad news brewing there, make no mistake," came a soft whisper from his side. Frodo turned his head and saw that Sam, too, had been woken by the argument. He nodded, feeling the edge of the blanket brushing against his face.   
  
"I fear the Ring may be beginning to affect him, Sam. It's preying on him."   
  
Sam's eyes widened in alarm, and he shifted closer to Frodo. "What do you think will happen when we have to cross the river?"   
  
"I don't know. He is an honorable man, but I – the Ring—" Frodo broke off, a shudder running through him. Concerned, Sam threw an arm across Frodo's shoulders, pressing close against him. "Anyone who comes into contact with it is in danger, Sam, do you see? Anyone who comes into contact with me, so long as I carry it. I'm a danger to all of you." Sam scowled, but Frodo went on. "It will only get worse as we get closer to Mordor. The Ring knows it's getting closer – I can feel it. And the Dark Lord will be looking for it." He bit his lip; Sam's eyes were very bright, and so close they filled his vision. "Oh, Sam, you must wish you had never come, or that Lord Elrond had sent you back before we ever left Rivendell."   
  
"Begging your pardon, but that's not so. It can't be as hopeless as all that, or Gandalf would never have suggested it, if there wasn't a chance, at least. I wouldn't have gone back alone, I wouldn't. And I don't wish I had never come, unless it was that both of us had never left, nor Mr. Bilbo had ever found the cursed Ring."   
  
Frodo stared helplessly in the face of Sam's avowal. His guilt versus Sam's stubborn devotion; there was nothing for it then. He had only to tip his head up, just a little, and he touched his lips to Sam's. For a moment he had no answer but a small, startled sigh, and he nearly drew back, but then Sam's mouth went soft against his, lips parted, and the arm over his shoulder tightened, as if to draw him closer. Frodo was only too happy to comply, rolling onto his side to press against to him. His fingers glided across Sam's cheek to tangle in his hair and deepen the kiss. Cloaks and blankets were pushed aside as heat blazed between them; their legs tangled together, and Frodo nearly whimpered.   
  
For too long, he'd feared this, feared that wanting Sam was akin to wanting something offered by the Ring, but kissing Sam was not like drawing from a well where he oughtn't. No, Sam was a source that gave freely, had been offering himself freely – his presence, his smile, this kiss – for a while. All Frodo needed to do accept it.   
  
- -  
  
Frodo reached the boats in a panic. It was as he had feared – the Ring's evil had consumed Boromir, and now it sent fear coursing through his every limb. He had stayed with the Fellowship for too long, every moment allowing the Ring to work its poison through them. Well, no more. Fingers dug into his palms as he willed himself to action. He had to have the strength to go on alone – the Ring had to leave his friends before it did more harm.   
  
He removed Aragorn and Sam's packs from the boat they had shared, and launched out into the river, headed for the eastern shore. Sam would follow him until death, or worse. For what might he do to Sam if he, too, fell prey to the Ring? Frodo wished more than anything that this burden, this choice had not come to him, but come to him it had; all he could do was what he thought was best, and hope the others – hope that Sam – would forgive him.   
  
He pushed the boat lightly out on the water and took up a paddle, just in time to hear Sam shout as he reached the shore. Frodo turned in horror to see him plunge into the river, heedless of the current that immediately pulled him down.   
  
A quick stroke of the paddle pushed him back to Sam, and he plunged his hand into the water as Sam surfaced, thrashing and bubbling. Catching him by the hair, and then by the hand, Frodo pulled him against the side of the boat. "Up you come, Sam my lad, now take my hand! I won't let go. There now, get hold of the side, and let me use the paddle." Sam clung to the side of the boat for the few quick oar-strokes it took to reach the shore. "Of all the confounded nuisances," Frodo said, though without much heat, "you are the worst, Sam."   
  
Dripping wet and shivering miserably, Sam looked at him with hurt. "Oh, Mr. Frodo, that's hard! That's hard, trying to go without me and all. If I hadn't a guessed right, where would you be now?"   
  
"Safely on my way," Frodo said with a small smile.   
  
"Safely! All alone and without me to help you?" Sam reached out and caught Frodo's hand. "I couldn't have borne it. It'd have been the death of me."   
  
Frodo stepped close to him, curved his free hand against the soft skin of Sam's cheek. "It would have been the death of you to come with me, Sam, and I could not have borne that."   
  
"Not as certain as being left behind," Sam persisted.   
  
"Perhaps not. But I am going to Mordor. Alone." He had to try, at least make the attempt to protect him.  
  
"I know that well enough, Mr. Frodo. Of course you are." Sam's smile was pure triumph. "And I'm coming with you."   
  
As before, there was nothing for it but to give in. "It is no good trying to escape you," Frodo said with a laugh. "But I'm glad, Sam – I cannot tell you how glad."   
  
Sam added his pack to the boat, and they pushed off again. If he had gone alone, Frodo thought, he would never again have seen Sam: and that he truly could not have borne. Sam's strength was his own, it seemed, and without it, it was less likely that he would succeed. Frodo was very glad, for while his own courage would suffice, he preferred not to try his strength without Sam to support it.  
  
- -  
  
Boromir trembled in the wake of his fit of madness. What had possessed him ... yes, possessed, that was the word; oh, he had been weak. His father had sent him to be strong, both to claim the great weapon of the Enemy, and to show the strength and honor of Gondor upheld, though her line of kings had vanished. Instead he had failed, betrayed his companions, broken his oath of fellowship, and lost any aid he might have brought back to his people. Boromir wept then, for his weakness and corruption, for the brother who should have come in his stead, and for doubting the king he should have followed.   
  
How long he lay there, he did not know, but he heard, away up the hill, great crashing sounds as of many men trampling through the wood, and the harsh bellow of orc-horns. It galvanized him, a great shock running through him as he thought of Frodo running panicked and alone into the hands of the enemy. He picked himself up off the ground, and drew his sword. Fool and worse, he may have been, but he did not usually call himself coward. His sword-arm was still a thing to be feared, and battle was a familiar challenge; perhaps he would do better at this one than at his last.   
  
Though Boromir had no real notion of how much time had passed since his madness had overtaken him, he hoped that with any luck, Frodo would have reached the safety of the boats already. Then he heard the voices of the two younger hobbits, crying out sharply in fear from somewhere nearby, and Boromir began to run toward them. There, at least, were two he would not fail, two whom he could still protect, though he might face their tormentors alone. Sunlight splashed off his naked blade, and he ran on alone through the trees, to whatever fate awaited.   
-- -- -- -- 

He is conscious now only of the heaviness of his limbs, the shadow-impressions of the waking world, and always before him the ever-burning Eye, the circle of fire drawing him in. And Sam. Sam's voice sometimes breaks the circle, lightens the veil of shadows between him and the world just a little.   
  
His own strength is giving way; he falls and crawls more often than walks, now, but every time there are hands that pull him up, drag or cajole him as needed. He cannot tell how many more steps remain before him, nor how many he'll make before the fire consumes him, but he stumbles on toward the mountain, toward whatever end.

* * *

Author's Notes: Sam/Frodo isn't usually something I write - heck, I've never written hobbits before at all - so it was really something of a challenge. Which is the point of the Remix exercise, I suppose. I tried to include the URLs of both the Remix homepage and Cimorene's original story, but this new formatter doesn't want to seem to load them - so email me if you want 'em, and I'll be glad to send them along. 


End file.
